The energy of lost love

Back into the warmth
Or did the warmth come from the book
Early on, an easy understanding
Of the many levels of consciousness
Given to me through Jung's interpretation
Of his early 30's dream

My arm is warm
The thin pullover clings ever so lightly
These are the paths my mind now wanders along
The slightest of touches, the merest of movements
Invoking memories of a gentle love
A love even more gently imagined

A memory so easily painted
With soft lights and warm colours
A time past that lives fleetingly as a time present
An energy that reminds me
That the warmth did not come from the book
The warmth came from within me

A within that has loved and lost and loved again
A warmth that reminds me that the loss of love
Is not love lost, but a love that floats
A love that waits to be rediscovered
Whenever the warmth calls by

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Scarlet Draughts

On this forearm
Merino wool is teased
Up and over the golden hair
Strands of hair that feel the breeze
Feel to be here, as easy as feel to be
Anywhere else I would wish to be

Ribbed sleeve ends
Bring a structure to proceedings
Provide a firmer bond to the softer pullover
Here now pull yourself together
What sort of friend
Would a lover make anyway



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Views & Desires

I am impatient
I have no time for this poetry dressed up as art
Yet I know for sure it is just a time thing
That with a clearer head I would absorb it fully
I would even turn to talk of love
Though never have I yet been able to talk of love
As finely as that fair old Mr Robin Robertson

I am impatient
I have no time for sitting and waiting
Yet I know for sure that once on board
The ferry time will pass even more slowly
That only then will I be able to look back
On that idyllic cottage by the stream
Somewhere on the way to Ullapool


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Findhorn Forest

In the shade of the pine
With pebbles & sand at my feet
I sit on the log barrier to have my photograph taken

Kate somehow manages, just after noon
To bring the flashbulb into action
It was clever, she says later
To the accompaniment of beating drums

The pine brush carries it's own random patterns
Rings of the sawn log gives away its age
A span of life before becoming further human solace

Times, and places run their course
Where once there was unfettered imagination
Coupled with a freedom of will there is now ageing

Rituals with repetition which in turn lead to decay
We are all  in need of the search for a new beginning
A new motivation; but it is no longer sufficient

To paint the words
Of grace and patience, onto ceramic mugs

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Findhorn

The dust of previous occupancy
Smothers any possibility
Of individual reckoning

Like a swathe of blankets
Thick in felt and embroidery
The weight of others is overbearing

Yet this place
Names itself
The centre for community

I wonder
Why then do I feel so estranged -
I determine to retreat to the pebble beach

Take solace with the solitary fisherman
Cast my cares to the clouds
Throw my woes on the rolling sea

The talk turns
To Finnish lodges
In the heart of the forest

A place to sauna
& swim
Au naturel

This sounds
More like
An engagement with life to me


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